


Hunted

by HeartlessMemo



Series: Tracker!Verse [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: (in later parts of the series), Donald Pierce's Southern Drawl, Donnie's team of reavers hunts down poor reader, F/M, Hunter/Prey - Freeform, Mutant Reader, Mutants, Reader-Insert, Stockholm Syndrome, Terror, chase - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24572998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartlessMemo/pseuds/HeartlessMemo
Summary: Donald Pierce and his band of reavers are on your trail. They've cornered you in an abandoned factory and you hide yourself away, terrorized by the stalking footsteps and lethal Southern drawl of the dangerous man who hunts you. Part one of a series that features Stockholm Syndrome.
Relationships: Donald Pierce/Reader, Donald Pierce/You
Series: Tracker!Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730212
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Hunted

By the time you make it inside the abandoned warehouse you’re wheezing and out of breath and your heart hammers inside your chest. You’re pretty sure that Dev and Maria managed to shake the Reavers. You can’t feel either of them in your vicinity anymore. They’re both powerful mutants, with abilities that actually lend themselves to escaping the enhanced mercenaries on your tail. You, on the other hand, don’t have super speed or strength…your only chance is to hide. 

The warehouse is tragically empty, just a huge vacant room with an industrial winch hanging from the ceiling and a lot of exposed ductwork. The Reavers are so close you can hear their footsteps echoing in the alleyway outside. You have seconds to make a decision…thank god you’re tiny. You sprint over to the back corner where a rusted out furnace sits surrounded by a tangle of pipes and ducts. It might be enough to obscure you if they’re not too observant. You squeeze between the concrete wall and the pipes, edging your way into the corner until you’re wedged behind the old furnace. You curl up into a ball on the floor, tucking your legs in close and praying that you’re not visible.

The creak of the warehouse door opening sends an icy shiver down your spine and you start to tremble as stomping footsteps echo through the cavernous building. You hug your knees closer to your chest, willing yourself to disappear entirely. Gruff, male voices shout back and forth. You just try to focus on staying perfectly still and perfectly quiet. To your ears, your ragged breathing sounds like it’s being broadcast over a microphone. You press your forehead to your knees, closing your eyes and telling yourself everything will be alright. You’re reminded of childhood and the sleepless nights you spent terrified that the shadows in your room would transform into ghosts or monsters. You would screw your eyes shut and tell yourself that if you couldn’t see them, they weren’t real.

_If you can’t see them, they aren’t real…_

“Alright,” you hear a deep, male voice drawl. “Let’s not put all our chicks in one basket. Sweep further on down the alley. I’ll take a closer look in here at all the nooks and crannies.”

The door slams open again and you hear the sound of the Reavers sprinting down the alley. And then there’s silence. Dead, oppressive, terrifying silence reigns in the rusty old warehouse.

“You know,” the man’s voice cuts through the atmosphere like a dagger, sharp and deadly, “if you are hiding in here…it’s in your best interest to just come on out right now.”

The echo of his footsteps makes it hard to pinpoint his location. He could be across the room or he could be about to sneak up on you. Tears fall freely down your cheeks now and you have to swallow the choking sounds of your fear. The man hums distractedly as he strolls through the building, taunting you with his levity.

“I won’t hurt you,” he calls out, and he’s definitely closer now. _Oh God…_ “Not if you’re a good girl and cooperate with me…”

He knows you’re in here. He’s toying with you… 

“You might even find…,” he goes on, his voice a mocking lilt, “that surrendering will be a weight off your back! Aren’t you tired of runnin’?”

His footsteps are so close now. He’s going to find you. There’s no escape. You hyperventilate, unable to control your own body as a sob crawls up your strangled throat. In a second he’s on you. Your eyes fly open to see a tall, powerfully built man with perfect blond hair and blue eyes staring down at you from the other side of the furnace. He takes in your tear streaked face and pitiful posture with a pout of false concern.

“Now, baby…this is enough to break my heart. Why don’t you come out of there and have a little talk with Donald?”

You frantically shake your head, pressing your back into the wall as if you could just sink right through it. No no no…this can’t be happening. 

Donald raises his robotic hand in a gesture of warning, “I won’t ask you again. Do you want me to have to drag you out of there? You won’t like it.”

You stare up at him, caught in his cool, blue gaze. He looks almost bored, leaning against the rusty furnace waiting for your response. You want to answer, to scream, to run–to do something. But you’re frozen like a baby fucking gazelle. It’s not until he rolls his eyes and reaches down to grab your arm with that deadly, robotic hand that you cry out. 

“No, no! I’ll come out. Just…please…don’t hurt me…” you sound so weak. You’re overcome with mortification and self-loathing. How easily you surrender to the hunter. Well…at least Dev and Maria got away. They don’t need you slowing them down anymore. 

He releases your arm, looking pleased with your decision, “Thatta girl, come on out now.”

You start shimmying your way out through the jumble of pipes surrounding your hiding place. It’s a lot more difficult than it was getting in. You suppose you were high on adrenaline before. Donald leans over and helps you climb out, holding your hands to balance you. His large hands– one robotic, one very much flesh and blood–engulf your own; his palm is rough and calloused. How odd…the touch of his skin on yours makes him real. The monster is real…and he’s human. When you’re finally standing before him your eyes are only at chest level. His tall, muscular frame dwarfs you, making you feel more vulnerable than ever. He lets his hand rest lightly on your shoulder, the hint of suppressed violence just beneath the surface. 

“Now, why don’t we sit down and have a little chat…” he steers you to the other side of the warehouse where several metal folding chairs are stacked up against the wall. As he’s setting them up he takes out a walkie talkie and speaks into it, “Target acquired. Circle on back to the vehicles. I’ll be out presently.” 

Now that the worst has actually happened you feel all the adrenaline bleeding from your body. Your limbs are like jello and you collapse gratefully onto the folding chair. Donald…your captor…leans casually in his own seat. You’re afraid of the hungry look in his eyes as he regards you. But mostly…you’re exhausted.

“Let’s start with you telling me a little bit about your abilities…”

So, you tell him. It’s hard to explain the actual process to people, because it’s different every time. But what it comes down to is tracking. You’re a tracker. You think of it like a prey animal’s defense system. You can sense mutants when they get close enough to you. You can tell what direction they’re moving, sometimes you can even detect their strength or moods.

“I’ve only ever used it for survival…” you explain, looking him in the eyes, “I’ve never hurt anyone.”

Donald nods his head, “No, of course you haven’t, baby. But…you have withheld a valuable tool. One that could be used for the greater good. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His tone is menacing. His words are…frightening. What greater good? You shake your head, confusion and fear written plainly on your features, “What are you going to do to me?”

Donald straightens up in his seat, reaching behind his back to pull out a heavy-looking pair of handcuffs, “Don’t worry, darlin’. We just want to figure out what makes you tick.”


End file.
